


Players & Pieces

by verati



Series: The Last Game [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actions and consequences, Angst, Drama, F/M, Grey!Dany, Pining, Scheming, The North remembers, Unrealized Feelings, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-12-07 15:45:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18236936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verati/pseuds/verati
Summary: “I miss him—Robb.” She tries to refrain from worrying the cuff of her left sleeve. “Sometimes I wonder if he would still be alive if he had not been led astray by his heart. Maybe the Freys would not have betrayed him.” Sansa gives in and pulls the cuff to cover her wrist. “Maybes and what if’s. What good are they for the living?”“The North Remembers, Jon.” A crownless king and a headless wolf lurk in the darkness behind him where the firelight cannot reach. She asks him, “Do you?”I will not lose another brother. The North will not lose another king.His head is lowered once more, face hidden in shadow.Heavy lies the silence.Begins S8E1, AU





	1. Nimble Hands, Clumsy Lips

**Author's Note:**

> **Read part one (chapter one), Alliances of Winter first!**

"...and I hope you find the rooms to your liking."

Daenerys gives a noncommittal hum. She doesn't know what to make of the woman that stands before her. Sansa Stark is neither warm nor cold. Her manners and words have proven to be as unassuming as a blank wall. It is her woman's intuition that tells her there is something underneath the layers of cloth that cover Sansa Stark.

 _I am at a loss. Jon never told me much about her. Nonetheless I must try to find some common ground with her. She_ is _Jon's family._

"You will find that everything necessary for a bath has already been brought up, as well." Sansa Stark gestured to the copper tub filled with steaming water before tilting her head towards the petite maid standing at her side. "Would you like Anise to help you bathe?"

Daenerys regards the flaxen-haired girl. Inzre is usually the one who helps her wash her hair and rub oils into her skin.  _It wouldn't hurt to get to know the smallfolk. Especially after the disastrous assembly in the great hall._ "I would appreciate it, lady Stark," she smiles at Anise, "and Anise."

"I'll leave you alone to rest," she gives a nod of her head, "your grace."

Sansa Stark turns around, nods to her maid, and is almost at the door before Daenerys calls out to her, "Thank you, Lady Sansa. I hope to better our acquaintance very soon."

"As do I."

Sansa Stark's red hair is the last thing she sees before the door closes behind her. Daenerys inhales deeply and inspects the chambers she will call her own for the unforeseeable future. They are smaller than her private chambers in Dragonstone. The walls are grey instead of black. The furniture is mostly, if not all, made of wood. There is little to liven up the dreariness that seems to permeate everything in the north. 

"Grey. Everything here is grey." She touches the fabric of one of the dark grey curtains. 

"I'm afraid so, your grace."

Daenerys had forgotten the maid had remained behind; she was so quiet.

Moments later Daenerys is naked and ready to bathe. Anise gives her her hand and helps her step into the steep copper tub. 

When she sinks into the bath she feels the heat of the water burrow into her bones. Loathe as she is to remember, her thoughts go immediately to the assembly in Winterfell's great hall that took place almost immediately after their arrival and adjourned only minutes ago.

 _"Why were we not informed of this? We chose_ you _to be our king, not some foreign wh—"_

_"My lords and ladies," Sansa Stark’s voice cuts in from the other side of Jon, "The long night is almost at our door. Daenerys Targaryen has come as an ally to help us in the war against the army of the dead."_

_"Ally? We know that is a lie, my lady.”_

_Jon's sister's words do nothing to quell the anger that unfurls in Daenerys._ I come to help them, I lost a dragon for them, and they dare to call me a whore?

_"She is no better than the Mad King! The North Remembers!"_

_”Aye!”_

_"The North Remembers!"_

_Jon's gloved hand settles atop of hers amidst the yelling and peacocking of the northern lords. In another occasion his touch would have been enough to still the pit she feels in her stomach but_ _Daenerys pushes back her chair and rises. She towers over everyone else and can see how they all tremble._ They have woken the dragon. Let them tremble.  _She walks around the head table and stands in the centre of it all._

"Which of your oils would you like me to use in your hair, my lady?"

The memory falls away. Daenerys opens her eyes and tells Anise to use the purple vial which she brought from Meereen. The girl has nimble hands and wastes no time in working the oil into her hair. While her hands are nimble Anise's voice is clumsy when she asks, "Wh-where is this oil from, my lad—I mean, your grace?"

 _She must be afraid to speak to me, poor thing._ "From Meereen." Daenerys feels Anise's hands still for a second in wonder. "Have you heard of it before?"

"No, I ‘aven't, your grace.”

The chill of the north dissipates. For a moment she closes her eyes and tries to forget she's leagues away from Kings Landing. Leagues away from the Iron Throne. Leagues away from her life's ambition. Instead she’s in Meereen, freeing the slaves, killing the masters, righting the wrongs of the past with her justice. She tells Anise stories, so many stories, and she listens with rapt attention; the girl’s eyes never waver from her face.

_Just like I saved Meereen I will save Westeros._

_Then, I’ll claim my throne._

Daenerys sinks until her head falls underneath the water to rinse her hair; the faraway sounds of men, and horses blur away.

 _Everything else can burn._  

 

* * *

 

"There are too many men and not enough food."

"That shouldn't be too much of a problem, my lady."

"Oh?"

"I imagine many of them won't survive the cold. Or the battle." Tyrion handles the goblet of wine like he would a camp follower. The wine is no luxury but it will satiate his need for warmth. "Less mouths to feed, you see."

No one speaks after his comment. He fills the silence and his cup by pouring himself more wine and waits for her to speak.

"There are whispers, Lord Tyrion. Whispers of burning fields and burning men."

Tyrion decides to avoid the topic. It wouldn’t do for this to taint Daenerys’ public image. “If you want to speak of whispers it’d be best you speak to Lord Varys.” _Has word of the Tarlys reached the North?_  “I am sure you remember him from your time in Kings Landing.” 

“I would never forget my time under your family’s _care_ in Kings Landing, _my lord_.” She stares him down and the disdain for his family drips carelessly from her lips. “It’s also something I will not soon forgive.”

He didn't expect her to be so direct—as direct as she could afford to be with him. How she has grown since he last laid eyes on her. Nevertheless, her directness digs into a sore spot that never healed when she left him to rot and bear the guilt of Joffrey’s murder. He can’t help but feel like her anger is aimed at him as well.  _Never forget? Never forgive? Does she believe me as despicable_ _as Joffrey and Cersei? As if_ I _were not a victim of my own family’s cruelty._

“My lady, you were not the only victim of my family’s cruelty,” the wine coats his tired eyes and tongue in righteous indignation. “I urge you to remember _this_ Lannister is here as Hand to your queen and ally. Here to save the north.”

Neither of them move. Seconds pass. Sansa examines his mutilated face before her entire demeanor shifts. Her shoulders relax underneath the fur of her cloak after she releases a long-suffering sigh. “My apologies, Lord Tyrion. It has been a stressful sennight.”

He allows himself to drink in the character of the woman who now sits before him. He believes her. Underneath her innocent blue eyes he can see dark blemishes—a result of sleepless nights; they do nothing to lessen her beauty. _Sansa Stark of Winterfell._ She may be married twice over, he thinks, but she will always be a Stark. 

_The key to Winterfell. To the North._

"Tyrion," he says.

Sansa takes a sip from her cup. "Excuse me, my lord?"

"We've been married—unconsummated, but married." He sends her an attempt of a smile. "I believe you've earned the right. At least in private."

She stiffens slightly at the mention of their truncated marriage. _Ah, she is still disgusted by the demon monkey._ Of course she would be, wouldn't she? _Even after all this time._

Sansa gingerly holds her wine and seems lost in thought, looking for answers at the bottom of the cup. Tyrion would tell her she will find nothing there but the reminder of her disgust makes him feel sour like the ill-made northern wine. 

"I...I would like that, my lo—Tyrion." 

Her soft response and hastily remedied slip surprises him. Her face is hidden behind a veil of red, but he can make out a tinge of rouge on her cheeks.

_Perhaps..._

"It will take some getting used to, I'm afraid." Her hair falls back into place and he watches the flush recede from her face. "You’re right, you have always been a trustworthy ally and friend. Unlike your sister."

He was hoping that she wouldn't mention Cersei. "I will be the first to admit my sister has her...faults. But believe me when I tell you that she will send her forces North."

“I know I can trust you, Tyrion, but—” she cuts herself off and rubs her thumb against the exterior of her cup. “Can I confess something to you?”

Surprised, Tyrion can only motion with his hand for her to continue. His cup is almost empty and the pitchers have run dry. Have they finished it all in one sitting? _She must be well into her cups to confide in me._

“Cersei...” She pauses as if to collect her thoughts. “I fear her; she hurt me like no other.” Tyrion feels a pinch of sympathy for the pretty picture in front of him. “Even after Petyr whisked me away from Kings Landing I felt as if she was hunting me down. I don’t know if I could ever trust her. She was _awful_ to you and to me. How can you be so sure she will aid us in the long night?”

Her eyes widen and he knows she is thinking of her captivity in the capital. His stomach churns. He drinks to settle it. While the wine is not the finest he has tasted it feels heavier on his mind and tongue. Sansa is one of, if not, the most important pieces in the north. She’s smart enough, if not a little naive. She might seem cold and unflinching to others but Tyrion can see how vulnerable she really is; he can read people as easily as he can read heavy tomes. He can read _her_ as easily as he did years ago. It wouldn’t hurt to get her completely on his side.

He should give her something in exchange for her trust. _Make her trust me more._

“There are many reasons I know she will send her armies north. One of them being...,” he pauses, “the survival of her unborn child. You can trust me when I say that she has something to lose if she doesn't uphold her end of the bargain."

Tyrion finishes the rest of his wine and watches her lean back into her chair. Her face is guarded; it is a quick change from the openness she exhibited before.

“Word of this must not leave this room, my lady.”

“Sansa. You may call me Sansa.” She lifts her full cup of wine to him in wordless agreement. “I believe you’ve earned the right. At least in private.” 


	2. Crownless King and Headless Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Arya feels a vibration roll across the stones of Winterfell and into her back when every single northerner repeats the merman's call._
> 
> _The North remembers._ _The North Remembers._ _The North Remembers._
> 
> _The chant reverberates long after the people have been silenced by Sansa’s call for order. Jon remains infallible and unreadable. Arya hastily looks away to study others in the hall._

Jon's chambers still smell of trapped winter sunlight even though Sansa ordered them to be aired out. Fur-lined boots are tucked away in a corner. A heavy cloak with direwolves embossed on leather straps lays carefully across the bed. It's strange to think of a time when Jon was living in Winterfell without her. She only came North when she heard Jon was back home.

So far, his homecoming is nothing like what she envisioned. Arya knows she taunted Sansa for loving stories and fairytales of knights and princesses. Even so, she cannot help but remember the one she secreted away to a little place in her mind where No One could never go. When the chill of night made her teeth clatter, when her insides constricted themselves in hunger she imagined Jon coming to her rescue in armor made of crow’s feathers with a helmet black like soot. As her limbs grew and her moonblood finally came to mark the passage of time, she held on tighter to the fleeting memory of her brother-knight.

She’s waited years to see Jon again and  worries something will go amiss. Arya thinks back to the assembly in the great hall and the uneasiness that pooled behind her eyes.

 _"I have suffered like no other to be where I am today. To reclaim what is mine by_ right _. I am no_ foreigner.” _Arya sees how hard it is for Daenerys to not spit out the word. "I am the rightful ruler of the seven kingdoms. The_ north _is one of those kingdoms." Daenerys takes careful, measured steps to occupy the empty space in the center of the great hall. "I have not come to conquer the north. I have come to_ save _it_ _."_

 _Arya feigns disinterest by leaning against the wall adjacent to the hall's entrance. From here she can see how the Targaryen woman's platitudes only incense the rising tension._ How can she claim to not be a conquerer? Jon couldn't have _truly_ bent the knee. She must have forced him, somehow.  _Arya focuses on Jon. His face is almost as placid as Bran's. She is reminded of their father's ‘lord’ face._ He would _never_. Jon...Jon would never...

 _"You have no_ right _to the North, no matter what aid you come here to offer us." Lyanna Mormont stands and she gives voice to what Arya has seen written in the wrinkles and scars of the men gathered in the great hall. “You are_ _an outsider, Daenerys Targaryen." Daenerys' scales bristle at the girl's remark. "Outsider to Winterfell, outsider to the North—an outsider to Westeros._

_"Winterfell has long stood as the center of all things northern. I remember when Ned Stark's last known surviving children came to Bear Island seeking aid to reclaim it. And Bear Island gave what men and resources it could offer because we knew no king but the king in the North whose name is Stark._

_"And now," she says, as she imposes her anger onto Jon, her voice cutting through the bullshit politics of the assembly, "we come to learn that the king we chose_ _bent the knee. He bent the knee to a foreigner who has no ties to the land_ we _have sacrificed lives and spilt blood for! I may look a child but I know what the North has lost to the south.” She pauses and the words that follow are said with solemn reverence, “I remember."_

 _Daenerys addresses the she-bear, "I am no outsider. I am no foreigner. I was_ born _in Westeros, on Dragonstone. My parents—"_

_A new voice rises from among the ranks. "You were borne here, aye. But you have lived the entirety of your life in foreign lands without learning our customs and history. If you had, you would know that mentioning your family in the North does nothing in your favor." A ruddy stain marks Wyman Manderly's cheeks. His fat frame suits him well in this moment of brash bravery. "I fought against your blood in the Battle of the Trident. The North remembers."_

_Arya feels a vibration roll across the stones of Winterfell and into her back when every single northerner repeats the merman's call._

_The North remembers._ _The North Remembers._ _The North Remembers._

_The chant reverberates long after the people have been silenced by Sansa’s call for order. Jon remains infallible and unreadable. Arya hastily looks away to study others in the hall._

Her thoughts seem to invoke the man himself. She hears Jon’s footsteps as they stop before opening the door to his chambers. She has seen him already but not in private, not alone, and not without background noises and people.

Jon steps into his room. Arya unfurls the hand that instinctively curled around  Needle's pommel. _A sister would never fear her brother._  Her empty hands move behind her back where she clasps them in a tight grip.  _Jon is Jon._

The Arya of her childhood would jump into Jon's arms knowing he would catch her and hold her to his chest. She would hang on tightly to his neck—not out of fear of falling but out of a need for comfort. _She would, wouldn’t she?_ Arya walks towards Jon and allows herself to be pulled into his arms. _Can I still be like the Arya of old? The Arya I was with Jon back then?_

“Arya. Gods, Arya. You’re here.” Jon’s arm’s tighten around her back. His voice is muffled as he says, “I feared I would return only to find you gone once more.”

 _Once I let go this feeling might end. Time will start once more and Jon will see me as a stranger._ Arya tries to find Jon’s heartbeat through the layers of leather and fabric that cover his chest. _I’m not the Arya he knew. He won’t recognize the faceless girl he’s holding. Sometimes I don’t recognize her either._

Arya doesn’t have to stretch as she did years ago to wind her arms around his waist. For so long she held onto dreams  of reuniting with Jon that she admits to herself that she’s afraid of letting go. Arya feels herself hoping to regain pieces of the Stark she was before.

They retreat at the same time. Arya steps back to examine the man who she calls brother. He looks like father, she thinks when she looks at his tied-back hair and weary eyes. _Even his cloak reminds me of him. But he can’t be much changed. Jon is still Jon._

“I listened, you know.” She rests her hand on Needle, a touchstone to the past. To the Arya of old. “I stuck them with the pointy end until I could make my way back home.”

Jon’s eyes, which have been studying her face ever since he walked in, turn downwards to the steel he gifted her before they knew what awaited them outside Winterfell’s gates. “You’ve kept it all this time? It’s served you well?”

“It was the only thing that reminded me of home. Needle has saved me so often I feel indebted to it.” 

Jon’s features begin to shift into a look of concern. “Arya...”

“Don’t worry,” she interrupts, “we’re both here now, aren’t we? Whatever we did to get back home doesn’t matter, right?”

The last is a question she had not meant to speak outloud. She sounds desperate for absolution; for what, she doesn’t know. The only thing she is sure of is that she can survive many things but losing Jon is not one of them. 

Jon evades her eyes and walks around her, touching her shoulder as he passes by. Arya turns on her heel to follow his movement.

He notices the cloak on his bed and Arya hears an exhale push out from his lungs. He picks up the cloak carefully before letting it fall onto the bed once more. He takes off the cloak he is wearing and it joins the other on the bed. Arya knows Sansa made both of them just as she made hers and Bran’s. _Has he spoken to Sansa yet? Or is she yet with the imp?_

Without his cloak Jon looks tired and exposed. He sits. His neck refuses to uphold the weight of his head. 

“I don’t know, Arya.” Momentarily she struggles to remember what question he is answering. He continues, “I wish I knew, believe me.”

He finally looks up from his tangled fingers. Arya almost wishes he hadn’t. She stares at him until she sees the illusion she had fabricated over the years unravel into the the form of a common man. A man that does not fit into the armor of the knight from her story. Jon is just as lost as she is; his eyes bare it all. There is guilt in the grey that look so much like her own.

_He gave the North away to her._

The brother whose smile warmed her on cold nights, the brother whose parting gift has protected her time and time again, is naught but a child’s memory. She finds herself adrift; her hand finds its way back to Needle. 

Just as she has changed so has he. A girl suspected this from the moment he rode into Winterfell's main courtyard. No One knew this when they observed him during the assembly in the great hall. No One knew while Arya Stark tried to make herself blind.

_I have been blind long enough._

“I saw him.” Arya smells the Hound’s rancid sweat as he yanks her to his front, smoke mixing with Northern blood. “I saw Robb.”

“‘The King in the North. The King in the North,’” she chants a macabre rendition of what she heard that night. “‘Here comes the King in the North,’ they sang. And he rode astride a great black steed as they sang out into the night.”

She’s not in Jon’s chambers anymore  she’s back atop the Hound’s horse, useless and weak, watching with bile creeping up her throat as her brother’s desecrated body is paraded amongst the corpses of the Northern people.

”They called Robb the Young Wolf. Perhaps that’s why they replaced his head with Greywind’s, they thought themselves clever.”

His head of mischievous auburn curls is gone and in its place, hastily attached, sits Greywind’s head. His crown is nowhere in sight. The moon’s pretty silver light doesn’t let her look away.

“Arya—” Jon thinks he understands but he didn’t _see._

_He didn’t see. He is blind._

“Robb was defiled. Thousands of our men followed him and met the Stranger that night. Massacred. Betrayed.” The moon vanishes and is replaced by a dining hall. She is a serving maid cutting into a pie set before her lord, knife sharp enough to make a clean cut. “Don’t worry. In the end they paid their dues. Winter came for House Frey.”

Arya remembers one of the few nights where she and Sansa spoke of the family they had lost. Of father, mother, Rickon, and Robb.

_“I miss him, Robb.” She tries to refrain from worrying the cuff of her left sleeve. “Sometimes I wonder if he would still be alive if he had not been led astray by his heart. Maybe the Freys would not have betrayed him.” Sansa gives in and pulls the cuff to cover her wrist. “Maybes and what if’s. What good are they for the living?”_

“The North Remembers, Jon.” A crownless king and a headless wolf lurk in the darkness behind him where the firelight cannot reach. “Do you?”

_I cannot lose another brother. The North will not lose another king._

His head is lowered once more, face hidden in shadow. 

Heavy lies the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to include Sansa’s POV but Arya and Jon’s reunion kind of took over the chapter. 
> 
> Arya is an interesting (and difficult) POV to write, I think. You want to do justice to her “faceless man” arc without reducing her to a soulless weapon—unless you’re writing a dark!Arya. 
> 
> I wanted to convey a want for the past and how I think Arya could unconsciously equate it to Jon without realizing he’s changed, too. Hopefully it reads that way. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading :)


	3. New Threats and Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hates having the dirty people of Kings Landing in the throne room, the same people that ridiculed her when she walked naked in the streets of the city. However, they will be needed in the future. They are the ones that will die in the battlefield and starve without the harvest. Let the commoners that are present today spread word to the rest, of the dragon queen come to burn them alive. _You have met your match, Daenerys Targaryen_. No one speaks yet the panic is audible and echoes against the vaulted ceiling.  _The throne is the last thing that remains to me._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Little birds._ She needs to speak to Arya.  _Privacy is practically nonexistent if we don't get rid of Varys' 'little birds'._
> 
> Jon brought more than people to their home. Memories, shadows, and secrets trailed behind him when he arrived.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cersei, and Sansa POVs.

_How quick are the vermin to follow the lute._ Cersei breathes in the fear of the courtiers, lords, ladies, and peasants.  _They are wise to do so. The lute plays no lies._

"...and I were the only ones able to escape from that hell. For it was hell, your grace. Carts, gold, horses, food...men. Burnin'." Weak lips tremble while eyes widen in remembrance, "Night was not able to-to hide—"

Cersei struggles to maneuver her features into that of a caring queen. "Continue, you are there no longer. We must know what new threat the seven kingdoms are now facing."

In truth, she has already heard the trembling boy's report. He was half dragged into the throne room and accused of being a deserter by one of the City Watch. _Ashes_ , he had cried kneeling before the throne, _tha's all was left of us_. The boy inside the polished soldier's garb says nothing that she had not heard from Jamie before he abandoned her. They had planned on holding an assembly like the one being held right now. Jamie would have stood beside her, reminding the lords and ladies of the Targaryen threat. But then he left. He betrayed her and left on a halfwit's quest for honor. And so now she has to make due with the sobbing mess before her. 

The women shuffle their feet hidden under skirts. The men divert their eyes away from the boy as he tries to regain his composure. _Perhaps his sniffles work in my favour,_ Cersei thinks, _Jamie would have stood tall and proud_. Cersei half-listens as the boy begins to speak again. _The boy's fear heightens their own. Cry some more, boy. Make them see what you saw that day._

"We waited until it was dark to come out. When we did we saw—" his arm comes up to clean his dribbling nose "—the bodies. They was nothing more than ashes in the form of men. A little wind and they crumbled into the ground. The dragon queen even left the bodies of my liege lord and his son in the field." The archer hammered onto his uniform catches the light streaming in. "Left them bones there, she did. They was good men an' she burnt them."

Here is the reaction she had waited for.

 _Tarly_.

The name is whispered by terrified eyes. They would speak it if they didn't fear her. Instead, the name of the nobles' dead contemporary walks unspoken amongst them. She feels almost inclined to thank the silver-haired bitch. Cersei knew her position in Kings Landing was not secure after the destruction of the Sept although the chaos that followed allowed her to easily claim the throne.  And then came a Targaryen conquerer from beyond the Narrow Sea with Dothraki hordes, Unsullied, and dragons. The stupid twit had everything to win the game. She had the men, the firepower, the ships. The day she burnt an entire field of Westerosi men and the Tarlys was the day she lost to Cersei.

"This is the danger we face now. When I last spoke of her, in this very hall, there were some lords who were willing to betray me and seek alliances with her. Do you know what worth she places in alliances?" She rises from the throne and descends the many steps that lead up to it. "Daenerys had Lord Tarly and his son in her possession." She is halfway down. "There was no offer to be sent to the Wall. There was no offer to keep them as hostages."

Cersei stops before she reaches the floor. All of the people gathered in the hall look so small from where she stands. "She could have asked to trade them for her allies, the traitors Ellaria Sand of Dorne and Yara Greyjoy. Instead they remained in the black cells. Unprotected and unspoken for. What does that say of her state of mind? Her actions speak of madness. Fire and blood _are_ the Targaryen words." 

Nothing unites people more than fear. Daenerys Targaryen has proven with the Tarlys that the highborns of Westeros are not safe from her dragonfire. She has pushed any potential Westerosi allies into Cersei's waiting arms. Now, it is only a matter of turning the commoners against the invader. 

"Westeros must stand together if we are to defeat this new threat. Nobles and smallfolk alike." The queen tilts her head slightly upwards in order to address the small pack of commoners standing in the back of the hall. "Be assured, for as much as the Targaryen pretender speaks of freeing the common people, she made no distinction between commoners and nobles. She burned them all the same; men and boys who were merely transporting the food and gold that would feed the realm. Gone."

She hates having the dirty people of Kings Landing in the throne room, the same people that ridiculed her when she walked naked in the streets of the city. However, they will be needed in the future. They are the ones that will die in the battlefield and starve without the harvest. Let the commoners that are present today spread word to the rest, of the dragon queen come to burn them alive. _You have met your match, Daenerys Targaryen_. No one speaks yet the panic is audible and echoes against the vaulted ceiling.  _The throne is the last thing that remains to me._

Cersei gives the order and the vermin scurry back to the streets and alleys of Kings Landing. 

She's standing alone once more with only the Mountain to guard her. 

_I've lost it all for this._

Joffrey. Myrcella. Tommen.

Jaime. 

_Your desire for what is mine will be your fall._

  

* * *

 

The day is young and new. Hammers in the forge strike their mark in tandem with clashing swords on the training ground.

"Lord Varys," Sansa affably greets him without turning away from the courtyard below,  "It is a pleasure to see you once more."

It isn't a pleasure so much as a reminder of the past. Never in her life had she imagined a situation such as this. _The Master of Whispers and Lady Sansa, greeting each other atop Winterfell's walkways._ She escaped her southern cage years ago only to see her home transform into the pit of whispers and fog that she left behind. Tyrion Lannister, Lord Varys...Daenerys Targaryen. She was not so naive as to think that Littlefinger's death severed all ties with courtly intrigue; nevertheless, the North seems to recoil in protest.  _Who else will pass through Winterfell's gates?_

"My lady, there is no need for such falsities with me. You and I are both quite aware that my presence gives you no pleasure." Sansa turns and makes to dissuade him but Varys continues, "And I cannot fault you for it. Only a simpleton would find pleasure in welcoming and hosting former enemies and strangers into their home.

"And you are no simpleton, Sansa Stark. On the contrary, you have proven to be a most..unexpected winter bloom."

Sansa softly smiles, not so much as to read false.

As a child Sansa would have preened at being addressed as such by a man of Varys' status. Now, the compliment leaves her feeling exposed and threatened. To be noticed by the Master of Whispers is dangerous—especially when he has the ear of a dragon queen. Her meeting with Tyrion yesterday was fruitful but lacking in substance aside from Cersei's supposed secret. A roaring fire, choice wine, and a scared little dove loosened Tyrion's forbearance; she would be remiss if she became a pawn once more. Still, yesterday was only the beginning of a path she knows is littered with traps, ploys, and unknowns. And the man before her is known for knowing many of those unknowns. 

_What do you know of Winterfell, Spider? What have you managed to catch in your webs?_

Varys wears no covering; the snow that blows off the turrets melts on his baldness. He looks nothing like a spider but Kings Landing taught Sansa that appearances are nothing more than costumes. Varys lifts an arm in an invitation to walk. 

"There is one matter that I came to specifically address with you, Lady Stark," Varys makes a sound of sudden recollection. "If I'm not mistaken our mutual friend, Petyr Baelish, was last here in Winterfell. I wonder at his absence so far..."

Their walk continues.  _He knows. He must know._  Sansa lets his fabricated wonder hang in the air. If he's mentioned it, there is little chance that he is not well aware of, or at least doesn't suspect, Littlefinger's fate.  _What else does he know? How_ long _have his threads been in Winterfell?_

A Winterfell guard passes by. "My Lady." He ignores Lord Varys. 

"My lord, you do well to worry for your friend." They arrive at the head of the wooden stairs. "Mockingbirds don't fare well so far away from the temperate south—especially in Winter. Little birds often try to find heat in castle walls only to be found cold and dead." Varys looks almost...amused? Sansa looks over her shoulder after taking the first step down, "Again, welcome to Winterfell, my lord. If you'll excuse me, as you can imagine your arrival means there is much work I must attend to. "

Sansa barely hears the eunuch's parting. Her feet touch solid ground but she has never felt more...she struggles to name the feeling as much as she struggles to draw air. She almost uses what little of it is in her lungs to laugh at her pathetic state. _Why am I behaving like this? Have I yielded to some kind of madness?_ Her dress is too constricting, the voices of the people walking from one task to another are too loud and...and...

 _Little birds._ She needs to speak to Arya.  _Privacy is practically nonexistent if we don't get rid of Varys' 'little birds'._

Jon brought more than people to their home. Memories, shadows, and secrets trailed behind him when he arrived.  

"Lady Sansa, are you alright?" Brienne, for it must be Brienne who discreetly offers her a steadying arm, asks her.

The arm goes unused. It wouldn't do to seem frail. Instead, Sansa says, "Please follow me. I must speak with my sister, privately, and I'll need someone to stand guard while I do so."

Sansa vaguely directs her body's movements in the direction of the Stark chambers. The guards posted at the end of the hallway bend slightly at the waist and move aside to let her pass. "You are relieved of your turn, go and get something to eat. Lady Brienne will stand guard for now."

Brienne takes their place and Sansa knocks on Arya's door; there is no answer. Arya's room is empty of little sisters. Dissuaded and in need of air she pivots and allows herself to quicken her steps to her own chambers. Brienne won't think little of her for showing a little weakness. She calls to her sworn shield, "Let me know if my sister comes. I will only be a minute in my own rooms."

"Yes, my lady."

She nearly smiles at the knight's formality. Sansa wouldn't mind if Brienne addressed her more familiarly. Unlike the concession she made to Tyrion, Brienne has earned her trust and right to call her by her name. 

Her hand trembles slightly but the key turns the lock and the door swings in.

No.

 _I can't do this._ Sansa takes a step back into the hallway. _Not right now_. 

"Stay," he asks of her. Loud enough that she hears him, quiet enough that she is sure Brienne knows nothing of his presence in her rooms. She could leave and none would be the wiser. 

Sansa was a lady at the age of three. A lady's courtesy is the only reason she takes one last painful draw of free air, steps into her room, and seals the exit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine the Iron Throne as a huge, monstrous thing—bigger than the one on the show. Anyways, I _finally_ got Sansa's POV up! I bet you can guess who is waiting in Sansa's chambers. A long overdue conversation will take place next chapter.  
> (Sidenote: OMFG. THE S8 PREMIERE IS LESS THAN A WEEK AWAY.)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented so far!


	4. Trust and Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Sansa._ " He says her name like a challenge. He doesn't know why he is so intent on this. He feels almost childish, fixated on a topic he can see she holds no love for. However, it is the first time that she has shown any matter of feeling or investment in this...conversation. And there is something dark and viscid within him that needs to know—that wants to break the veil of ice she is wearing. "I need to know," Sansa stiffens. "Tell me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV/Jon POV.

 

Sansa was a lady at the age of three. A lady's courtesy is the only reason she takes one last painful draw of free air, steps into her room, and seals the exit.

Discreetly, she tries to steady her breathing though her lungs beg her to gasp and heave. Jon is here and Sansa will not show herself as weak in front of him. She thought she knew him, at least a little. She knew him as king, a partner, and family. But then he left for Dragonstone against all counsel, and came back changed. He's still Jon. She still...trusts him. _And yet_ , Sansa's heart stutters in her chest and there is so little room, so little air,  _He left and came back as someone who's actions I do not understand...perhaps someone I did not ever really know._ Jon remains standing, waiting for her to make the first move. Caught unawares and unprepared, it is an ambush she has walked into. Sooner or later a confrontation between them was to pass. She had rhetorically hoped it would never come.  _Pretend, that is all I can do for now. Pretend I am everything I am not—calm and indifferent. Varys and his little birds will have to wait. First, this._

The lady of WInterfell confidently walks around Jon Snow and takes her place behind the great oak desk.  _I made the first move, let him be the first to break the silence and speak._  

 

* * *

 

He hears her before he sees her.

“...only be a minute in my own rooms.”

Jon rises from the chair set before the desk just as she opens the door. He can tell she's been outside. The wind has played with her hair though the braids have done their duty in keeping it in place. Although she has been in the cold her cheeks lack the red that normally colors them after being in the winter wind. Jon would think her unwell but she shows no discomfort or uneasiness. Her left foot takes a backstep, ready to retreat into the hall. She can't leave. He can't let her. 

“Stay,” he whispers.

And she does. Reluctantly, he knows, but she stays.

She calmly closes the door behind her. He thinks of what to say to break the silence but Sansa's gaze passes over him. If Jon hadn't spoken and witnessed her surprise at seeing him in her rooms, he would think himself invisible. He watches her as she strides to sit behind her desk. Sansa blankly looks at him as he remains standing. She will not speak, fine. Then he will.

"Are you well?"

"Yes."

"Any news of import?"

"A lot has happened since you left the North."

The window behind her does little in keeping out the gales that push back against the castle walls. He is glad for it. The wind makes the silence between words slightly more bearable.

"And will you not tell me of this news?"

"First: how did you get in? I'm assuming Arya was involved?"

“Aye.” It took her less than a minute to pick the lock.

_"Thank you."_

_Arya shakes her head as she works the metal pick into the lock. "Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you." A final twist and the door unlocks. "I have my own reasons."_

_His little sister is harsher and sharper-edged but the sweet girl he remembers is still there. He wonders what else besides lock-picking she's learned during her time away from home._

_"I don't trust her."_

_"Arya, she's your sis—"_

_" Our sister." She pushes the door open and steps aside so he can go in. "And I wasn't talking about Sansa; I've played the game with her. I have yet to play it with Daenerys Targaryen. Or with you."_

_"What game?"_

_She gives him a smile instead of an answer, and leaves._

“Where is she?” Sansa asks him. “Arya? I need to speak with her.”

Arya had mentioned going to the forges. The blacksmiths are hard at work, laboring day and night to make dragonglass weapons. Something tells him that if he told Sansa where Arya is she would leave in search of her. “I don't know,” he lies.

She says nothing, her eyes flicking to the closed door behind him. Yes, she would have left him to search for Arya.

Jon had arrived at Winterfell yesterday but right now is the first time Sansa and him are truly alone. Their reunion had been confined to their embrace in the courtyard. From there onwards, aside from the assembly in the hall, they spent the rest of the day in different parts of the keep, with different people, and different tasks. He knows his own reasons for avoiding her...what he doesn't know is why  _she_  avoided  _him_. Since Castle Black, Jon has come to understand a little of what makes the woman that stands before him. She's strong-willed, persuasive, and unafraid to speak her mind. Jon had expected her to hunt him down like a she-wolf and bring him to heel, demand answers to the questions he knows have been simmering ever since he signed as 'Warden of the North' on that damned scroll. 

She never came.

“You've been avoiding me.” He knows she had avoided him. She must know he had avoided her. 

“And you, me,” she confirms. “We've been avoiding each other. Now we're not. Is that all you came here for?”

Her lack of feeling or care needles him.

“No. It's not. We need to talk.”

Without warning or apparent cause, placidness seems to replace her discordance. "Very well, then. What news do you want to hear of first?" She leans back and lays her arms on the chair's armrests. He sits, cautious and wary of her change in tone. "The food shortage, the fickleness of the northern lords, the tension between the Free Folk and northmen, Arya and Bran? Or perhaps we should discuss the newer concerns that arrived with Daenerys Targaryen. Varys' little birds, the hatred the north holds against Targaryens and Lannisters, the wight dragon, and, _again_ , the food shortage."

"Little birds?" It's a term he hasn't heard of and the first topic that tumbles out of his mouth.

"Varys is called Master of Whispers for a reason," she replies drily, "Little birds, he calls them. Spies. Eyes and ears that report back to him, and often spread secrets and lies of their own. No conversation, secret, plan, or information is safe with them here. There is a _reason_  Varys has survived three regencies. He's a dangerous man."

 _And you brought him here_ , is left unsaid. 

Jon swallows and tries to bring some moisture to his drying mouth. Spies in Winterfell that report to Varys and, by extension, to Daenerys. Daenerys who is quick to anger and impulsive. Northerners are not known for their tact or minding their tongues. If the assembly in the hall is anything to go by, Jon is sure these little birds will have an easy job of reporting how unwanted Daenerys is in the North. It is a problem he is not sure he can solve. It is a problem he didn't even know existed. How private is _this_ conversation? Could there be a little bird in this very room? At least he knows Brienne is standing guard right outside. 

Speaking of dangerous men, "What of Baelish? I have yet to see him following you around the halls." He tries for humor in order to not betray his preoccupation, "Did Ghost frighten him away?"

There is a shift in her demeanor. Minutely, her hands tighten around the armrests. Her nostrils flare while she takes in a drag of air. Something happened between Baelish and her. _"I love Sansa, as I loved her mother,"_  Baelish had said. Jon should have killed the beady-eyed man when he had the chance. Instead, Jon left Sansa unprotected and alone with a man whose hungry stare never wavered from her.

"Don't worry. He's no longer your concern. Or a threat. Arya, Bran and I saw to that."

Unbidden, his gloved hand tightens. Muscle memory. Tendons and muscle move as he tries to choke a neck that is no longer there. "What happened? He made his intentions towards you very clear to me before I left."

"I don't want to talk about Littlefinger right now."

" _Sansa._ " He says her name like a challenge. He doesn't know why he is so intent on this. He feels almost childish, fixated on a topic he can see she holds no love for. However, it is the first time that she has shown any matter of feeling or investment in this...conversation. And there is something dark and viscid within him that needs to know—that wants to break the veil of ice she is wearing. "I need to know," Sansa stiffens. "Did he—did he cross any boundaries he shouldn't have?"

"You ' _need_ to know'?" Her head lowers, shaking humorlessly, until he can only see the braided rose that crowns her hair. Words are slow and pointed in coming out of her mouth. Her tongue seems to savor each syllable. "Funny, that, how you demand answers and explanations from me. How, suddenly, 'we need to talk'. We needed to talk several moons past, what use is talking now? My counsel and opinion doesn’t _matter_ to you."

 _You're wrong_. There are few people he can and does trust. He left the North in her steady and capable hands. He entrusted the safety of their people to her. She...she came into his life unexpectedly but he now finds himself unable to fathom a future without her—and the rest of his family.  _How can you doubt your importance to me? Or believe that your counsel and opinion doesn't matter?_ “It does matter—”

Her chair scrapes against the floor as she abruptly stands, and her hands grip the edge of the desk. “No, it **_doesn’t_**." As if surprised by the vehemency that coats her words, she blinks rapidly, and twists her face away from him. "One raven, Jon. That is all you cared to send." Her voice is hoarse; he surmises it is probably from anger. "You left our home and a kingdom we just reclaimed, to leave on a mission everyone advised you against because we couldn’t risk losing you. Moons without a single word, or scroll to at least let me know you were alive and well." She lifts a hand to wipe away a strand of auburn that escaped her braid. "And then when I do receive a raven it’s to let me know—not confer with or discuss—but to let me know that you bent the knee. Brienne told me of how you publicly pledged yourself to Daenerys at the Dragon Pit. No one aside from you and the Targaryen queen, _not even Ser Davos_ , your hand, knew." 

He mimics her and stands just as harshly. Jon thought she trusted him. ' _We need to trust each other'._ They had promised atop Winterfell's battlements, hadn't they? "You weren't the one that had to negotiate with Daenerys. I was." Anger at her mistrust worms into his throat. Sansa wasn't kept prisoner with no access to her ship and weapons. She doesn't know of how tense the situation was. She doesn't know how volatile Daenerys' temper is. She criticizes him without knowing exactly what transpired on that thrice-damned island. "You have no _idea_ what it was like, you only believe what you want to believe and accuse me of—of I don't know what."

"That's the problem! I have no idea because you refuse to confide in me!" Her gloveless hands release their grip on the desk. The lady of Winterfell draws her shoulders back and circles the desk to stand before him. The barrier between them is gone and at this close distance Jon can see a faint redness lining the white of her eyes. "You act like a lone wolf without thinking of the consequences. With the stroke of a quill, you sent a scroll renouncing a crown voluntarily given and voluntarily accepted," a breath shudders past the belt that tightly winds around her waist, "and it fell upon me to try and explain a situation I knew nothing of to the people that put their trust in the Stark name. Thrice now, a Stark king has lost the north. Did you believe the lords would accept a Targaryen queen as _easily_ as you did? You _know_ what the North has suffered at the hands of southern rulers—especially Targaryens. I'd almost wager many of them would rather die in the Long Night than submit once more to 'Fire and Blood'."

"Then they're fools," he says through clenched teeth.  _We're really all just Northern fools in the end._  "Do you think the Night King cares about who holds what title? Titles don't matter—"

"Oh, yes they do," she cuts in, "What will happen after the war? After the Night King is defeated? You say you fight for the living but it seems you don't care or understand that _life_ , the very thing you are fighting for, will continue on afterwards and the promises and pledges you have sworn will matter. Who rules over us, over the North, will matter. That you pledged northern men to fight for a bloody throne in the south _will_   _matter_." Her volley of attacks leaves her winded and gasping. " _You're_ a fool if you don't understand this."

"She has dragons, armies, and dragonglass. We _need_ Daenerys, what don't _you_ understand about _that_?" He isn't wearing the cloak Sansa made for him yet he feels himself warming underneath Sansa's clear disapproval. Sansa always gets under his skin. What does he have to do to gain her trust? "Without her we will not win this war. I've seen the Army of the Dead. I've fought them. Not even her dragons are safe. You heard Bran, the Night King now has a dragon of his own." Guilt at agreeing to go beyond the Wall for Daenerys' truce, the loss of Uncle Benjen, guides his eyes away from Sansa's penetrating gaze. "You have no idea what we're up against. If I hadn't gone to Dragonstone...there is no doubt in my mind the Night King would kill every single northern man, woman, and child before making his way south. You must know," he takes a single step forward, tries to make her understand. "All I care about is protecting the North. I promised to protect you, remember? I could never forgive myself if I hadn't done everything possible to protect you, Arya, and Bran."

The braziers and sconces mounted around the room crackle, and cast her face in orange light. He feels like she's ripped from him an unknown truth he himself is blind to. She looks at him, unblinking. He stares back, waiting. His eyes start to burn but he will not yield. Sansa's veneer of ice seems to thaw. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her thumb worry her palm. Quietly, she asks him a question that tears open the wounds on his chest, “Was it duty to the North or love for _her_ that made you bend the knee?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, damn. Season 8 is finally here!! Can I just say that the little tête-à-tête between Sansa and Jon was just—!!! There were so many things left unsaid but what we did get was tension-filled and full of unnamed _things_ between them. 
> 
> Next chapter will have a little Sansa POV regarding her discussion with Jon. The main chunk of it will feature Arya and Gendry's reunion!
> 
> Thanks to everyone that continues to read this fic! Cheers to a, hopefully, good season 8!


	5. Day of Tears and Scorpions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya had considered her options a hundred times over. There were so many faces she could use. An old man with wiry brown hair. An even older man with no hair at all. The young woman with golden locks and a delicateness she couldn't help but envy.  _It's easier to hide behind those faces,_ she thinks as a pregnant woman struggles to curtsy,  _Perhaps this was a mistake._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa, Arya, Gilly POVs

“Was it duty to the North or love for  _her_  that made you bend the knee?"

In spite of all the flames dancing around them the warmth seeps out of the room the longer it takes for him to answer. The question came out laced with a bitterness she does not want to examine or prod. Instead she focuses on Jon. How he avoids looking at her, preferring to drop his stare to the floor. How his head dips from left to right, once. The way he blinks and licks his lips, looks up at her and opens his mouth only to purse his lips together without uttering a single word. She follows the movement of his throat as he swallows his answer. 

Petyr's voice brushes mockingly against her ear, _"So the rumors were true; the dragon queen is_ quite _beautiful,"_ he says _. "Beautiful enough to tempt even your honorable, Jon Snow. You've seen how she looks at him. Heard how she allowed him to ride a dragon. You know the answer."_ Before he leaves he whispers, _"A better question would be why it bothers you the way it does. I thought I taught you better than this, Sansa."_

 _If he gave up his crown along with his heart..._ She's done waiting for an answer that will never come. She doesn't need to hear it. Not anymore. She knows the Army of the Dead is upon them. She understands the threat is real—she's been preparing the North and its people for it ever since Jon told her. She trusted his word, she trusted him, without asking for proof or anything else in return. What more does he want from her?

"It's alright. Don't answer." She gives him as small a smile as she can muster. It's brittle and cracks her lips. "I've found I've grown used to your silence."

She steps away from him and turns on her heel. Tears are not long in coming.  _I've really gone mad, haven't I?_  The idea of crying in front of him horrifies her.  _He bent the knee. What should it matter—_ She snatches a pair of gloves from a table. It's cold outside and she has to find her sister.  _—if he did it out of duty or love for her?_

"Sansa, I—" she hears him sigh but she refuses to turn around. "I know it isn't easy but I ask you to trust in me one more time." 

Her hands pull the gloves on. She looks up to the ceiling but a treacherous tear still manages to fall, and runs down her right cheek. She makes no move to rub it away. She can't speak. With her back to him she gives him a single sharp nod. The door cannot open fast enough. Once she's outside with the thick wooden door between them she finally heaves in the air she's been lacking for the lesser part of an hour. Two— _three_ more tears escape. Sansa swipes them away with cold leather gloves. 

Hastily, she pushes herself away from the door. Brienne doesn't seem to have moved from her post at the end of the corridor. If she notices anything amiss she doesn't mention it and only asks her if she is to remain at her post.

"No, there's no need. Come, Lady Brienne," she nods and follows Sansa out. "I have a sister to find. And you have Podrick to train, don't you?"

 

* * *

  
Those familiar with her don't bother to bow or curtsy. They only give her a respectful nod with a quick "My lady" or "Lady Arya" tacked on. It's the others, those from the North's varying houses that continue to trickle into Winterfell, that don't fit into the environment she has carefully curated around herself. She is grateful to Sansa for the clothes she made and the pieces she ordered where her skill lacked. Sansa didn't force dresses and corsets onto her. No, they understand each other better since the days of summer. Her sister gave her garments she could move and fight in. A cloak that would allow easy access to her growing arsenal. Still, the choice furs, neat stitching, and cleanly boiled leather clearly identify her as a lady of status. The Lady of Winterfell's younger sister. Arya stands out among the haggard and worn people of the North. 

Arya had considered her options a hundred times over. There were so many faces she could use. An old man with wiry brown hair. An even older man with no hair at all. The young woman with golden locks and a delicateness she couldn't help but envy.  _It's easier to hide behind those faces,_ she thinks as a pregnant woman struggles to curtsy,  _Perhaps this was a mistake._

She presses herself against a wagon being unloaded of dragonglass. Sansa is walking with Brienne towards the keep, likely heading to her rooms. Arya wonders what will come out of her sister's conversation with Jon. Their dynamic is strange. It is obvious to her that they have been avoiding each other. What she doesn't understand is why. She'll get answers soon enough. The pack can't afford any stupid animosity. Arya will protect her family at any cost. 

When the tip of Oathkeeper disappears into the shadows of the keep, Arya falls in step behind a man carting dragonglass into the forge. A blacksmith pours molten obsidian and steam billows out into the cold.  She uses its cover to her advantage. The usual forgery sounds mask her steps easily enough. 

"What is a Flea Bottom boy doing this far North?"

The hammer stops a hairswidth above the red-hot dragonglass. "There's plenty of work here. The wages aren't better, though."

"I don't think you're being paid at all."

Gendry looks over his shoulder and his body twists around to follow his head. The memory she had of him sighs in relief at being refilled and renewed. His hair has been cut. There are little scars on his hands. He's taller than tall, now. The muscles are still there but even those have changed. They're thicker and more defined. It's obvious he is taking her in, too. If she weren't a craven she would ask him what he thinks of her now.  _It's too late to pretend to be Anise. Or anyone else._

"'Arry. I mean—" He cleans his hands on the soot-covered breeches and bends at the waist. "—my lady."

When he rises she can see the humor in his slightly raised eyebrow. It thrills her to fall so easily into this...whatever this is. 

"I told you, I'm no lady."

"Yes, once or twice. I think you’ll just have to keep reminding me."

Arya thumbs Needle's pommel as she steps forward to examine the weapon Gendry had been working on. "You arrived with Jon and the dragon queen." It's cooled down, but it's still bright red. "How?"

Gendry frowns slightly and crosses his arms. The long-sleeved tunic is rolled up due to the heat of the fires. His voice lowers, "King's Landing wasn't—it wasn't ever safe for me. Not with Cersei being Queen. When Ser Davos came to get me I had nothing to tie me there." Speaking with more volume he says, "And when he said we were to join your brother, Jon, well—I knew there was a reason for everything."

There's more to unravel here.  _What does the queen have to do with Gendry's safety? As if I didn't have enough reasons to strike her off my list._

"What do you mean a reason for everything?"

He smirks and tells her to follow him. "Do you remember what lord Bran said? About the Night King's dragon?"

Arya nods. How could she forget?

_"I have lost one of my greatest treasures to save your former king." Daenerys cannot hide her indignation at the barely concealed hatred coming from the North. "Beyond the Wall, I sacrificed one of my dragons so Jon Snow could live."_

She lost a dragon. That explains why only two have flown above Winterfell. _Arya watches as Bran's hands tighten around the armrests of his wheelchair._ What could Bran have to say?

_"You are wrong," Bran's words seem to cut the room in the air by half. "He is not lost."_

_The Targaryen woman stiffens and Arya can see how reluctant her muscles are to move to face Bran. "Lord Stark, you do not know—"_

_"I do know. I know Viserion was named after a brother you lost to a golden crown." Daenerys' mouth parts in fearful surprise as Bran continues to speak. "I know that same dragon has now been resurrected by the Night King."_

_Arya knows she will never forgot this moment in time. Wide eyes, flared nostrils, hair standing on end. Face after face after face and the only thing she sees is fear._  A dragon. They lost a dragon to the Night King. They...how will we...  _On her own skin she feels each pore prick into gooseflesh._

"When I was in King's Landing I took up work again in the Street of Steel," he tells her, "One day my master and I, along with other blacksmiths, and artillery workers, were summoned by Cersei Lannister's Hand. He commissioned—well, why don't I just show you?" 

"It took us more than a moon's time to perfect the design. We didn't really know what it was for, only that the queen would pay handsomely if she liked the results. And then rumors started to spread of a Targaryen with _dragons_. I've had no education but even I could guess what the weapon we built was for." Gendry pulls back a dirtied tarp to reveal what Arya can only describe as a giant crossbow. "And she payed very well. I'm assuming it worked well enough."

Arya crouches down to examine it. There's metal wires strong enough to pull back the giant bow. The wood is under great tension but retains its shape and form. A lever to release a giant spear-like arrow...It's a weapon made beautiful by the danger it possesses. 

"Obviously it's not the same one we built for Queen Cersei. Not as ornate or grand. The other men and I have been working without sleep to finish it." He sounds rightly proud of the product of his labor. "Scorpion, I believe the Hand called it. Not that great of a name if you ask me."

She stands and offers him a real smile, one she very rarely has use for these days. "It's...This changes everything, Gendry."

A man by the name of Carwyl catches her attention and nods towards the back. Arya spins around and sees Sansa standing at the entrance with her gloved hands clasped in front of her. 

_Something's wrong._

 

* * *

 

Gilly doesn't know what to do. She knows her Sam better than anyone. He's no craven. He's the bravest man she's ever met. She feels useless as she holds Sam as closely as she can. She's as unaware as Little Sam of what's caused her love this much pain. 

"Sam," she says with panic, "Sam, what's wrong?"

His sobs continue to wreck through him and Gilly feels scared. Truly scared. She's never seen him cry like this. Not even because of his terrible father. It must be something truly wretched to make him shake this way. 

"I—oh, Gilly." 

She hushes him gently and brings him with her to the feather mattress. He follows and kneels before her, laying his head on her lap. They stay like this for awhile. Gilly does the only thing she can and waits for him to tell her what has him so heartbroken so early in the day. It's not even midday!

Sam finally seems to calm down, sighing when she slips her fingers through his hair. 

"She killed them, Gilly." He turns his head to the side so he can look up at her as he says, "Killed them because they wouldn't bend the knee."

Gilly doesn't know who he's talking about. She sometimes gets frustrated with Sam. He says things and expects her to know everything when she has no idea what he's talking about. He's gotten better, though. That's why she loves him. He always tries for her and Little Sam. " _Who_ was killed, Sam?"

He pushes himself up, and sits beside her on the bed. She offers him her hand and he takes it gratefully. "My father and brother." Gilly gasps, she can't help it. "Daenerys Targaryen killed them. She didn't even apologize. What will become of my sister and mother? I need to write to them—What will—I—oh, _Gilly_."

Gilly hugs him to her side when he starts crying again. His father was a terrible man but the rest of his family had been so kind and welcoming. Sam says the dragon queen killed them because they didn't bend the knee. Gilly's a Wildling, a  _Free_ Folk. She looks over Sam's head towards Little Sam playing with wooden figurines on the floor. She thinks of the other Free Folk encamped around Winterfell, mostly women and children not unlike her and Little Sam. What if they didn't kneel? Would the dragon queen kill them, too? If she didn't care about killing lords like Sam's father and brother, why would she care about people like her?

"What about Jon? The dragon queen is his aunt. Can't he do anything? Have you told him, Sam?"

"No. But I will." Sam kisses her on the cheek and stands. "I must."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter seemed to write and edit itself. We get a pseudo-answer from Jon, Gendry and Arya's reunion, and the Tarly reveal. RLJ will be revealed to Jon next chapter. 
> 
> I was going to write Sam's POV but wrote Gilly instead since I liked writing her so much in 'Alliances of Winter'.
> 
> As always thanks for reading!


	6. Last Chance for Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a distance, dragonsong echoes eerily through the godswood trees. Jon quickens the pace and wills himself to ignore the call. He may not be a Stark but he holds no allegiance to the three-headed dragon.
> 
> Winterfell rises before him and he is Jon Snow once more. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Jaime’s horse nearly throws him off when it hears dragons screeching high above them. He uses his metal hand to try and calm his horse and grips the reins with his left. The horse is not the only one left skittish and wary; people fearfully scan the sky and seek shelter. Jaime himself tenses as he remembers the ambush in the Reach.  _Burn them all... She really is her father's daughter._ Jaime strokes the horse’s flank to soothe him before urging him forward once more. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> The king slayer stands in the middle of the Great Hall. He ports nondescript leathers and clothing, nary a roaring lion in sight. The only marking upon him is his golden hand—his sword was removed upon his arrival. He is naked and defenseless, surrounded by both northerners and Unsullied preventing escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Jaime/Dany POVs

_"She killed them. Daenerys killed my father and Dickon because they wouldn't bend the knee."_ 

_"Don't say you're sorry. You didn't do it. You didn't know; I can tell that much."_

_"Why did you bend the knee to her?"_

_"And if we survive the Night King, what then?"_

_"Even if she ignores that the Baratheons won by right of conquest, the throne could never be hers by blood right."_

_"I mean that she's not the last Targaryen."_

_"I think you know, Jon. You're not simple. You never have been. Dragons don't let just anyone mount them."_

_"At the Citadel I—Gilly, really—found the High Septon's diary. And Bran confirmed it. Rhaegar and Lyanna married. And you, you're—"_

_"Listen, to me! Eddard Stark did it to protect you at your mother’s behest. If King Robert found out who you really were he would have_ _killed you. Friendship with your father be damned."_

_"Jon, you're my brother. Snow, Targaryen, I don't care. But—"_

_"You can't just ignore this. Secrets like this will make themselves known."_

_"You believe that? That she won't care that you have a higher claim?"_

_"You know the Free Folk, you know the North. They'll never bend the knee to her. They might keep quiet while the dead march. But once this war is over I won't be surprised if a war between the living comes to pass."_

_"And if they don't bend the knee? Will she have them all executed like she did my father and brother?"_

 

* * *

  

The memory of his father-turned-uncle is strongest here in the godswood. Jon remembers watching Ned Stark tend to Ice underneath the careful supervision of the heart tree’s weeping face.

The heart tree has never looked more heartless and cold.

Jon wishes _he_ didn’t have a heart. His treacherous brothers should have done him the favor of cutting the pulsing muscle out of his chest. If Jon was a heartless man he would use Longclaw to tear and rip apart the bleeding face that’s watching him now. 

Instead, he unsheathes Longclaw and unleashes his anger and fear upon an ash tree. He lifts his arm back and hacks away at the tree’s trunk.

     Hit,

His father was never his father. 

     after hit,

He can't ever be a Stark. He isn't even a _fucking Snow_. 

   after hit, the tree takes it all without complaint.

He bedded his father's sister without knowing who she was, who he was, and–and–

Jon stops Longclaw mid swing and stares up at the cloud-filled sky. He opens his mouth to scream but instead chokes on unshed tears.

Winterfell’s bastard.

That is who he believed himself to be.

For the entirety of his life he had hoped his mother would still be alive. It did not matter if she was low or high born. And his fath–his _uncle_ had promised to tell him. On the Kingsroad he had said—he had said—

Now, even his parting words, and where he said them, seem to mock him. 

_“You are a Stark. You might not have my name but you have my blood._

_"The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother. I promise.”_

He drops Longclaw into the snow, uncaring of where it lands. Tired and drowning, Jon falls against the butchered tree, its mangled flesh scraping against his own. The ground lures his weight down down down until he's on his knees. 

For a second time, he mourns the loss of the man that raised him. The first was upon learning of his death. Now, upon learning he was never his father at all. He mourns the loss of a mother he will never meet. Not in this life and perhaps never in death. He mourns a father who will never compare to the man who raised him. A king who cast aside his wife, abandoned his children, and threw the seven kingdoms into the lion's den.

Sam was right; Jon knows that his lord fath–Lord Stark hid the truth to save him. He hid it under snow and in Winterfell’s crypt. Half-lies and omissions became a truth the world accepted because it was better than believing the honorable Lord Stark would lie—never minding the dishonor a bastard's existence brings. 

Jon wonders if his life was worth such trouble. 

 _He is the most honorable man I’ve ever known. He lied to the world, tainted his honor, and safeguarded the lie until his death to keep a promise of protection._ Jon feels a sense of kinship and understanding with Eddard Stark. _He might not be my father but in this we are alike_ _._

The tree's scars run deep and jagged underneath his examining fingers.  _I'm a liar, too, like him._

 _I compromised my honor to protect the North and all those who inhabit it._ It is an uneven exchange, he knows. _My honor is a paltry price to pay._  

Snow melts underneath his knees. He laughs. And laughs and laughs and cries. He's bent the knee to a tree of no consequence. He's bent the knee to a plant but never to _her_. He never did bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen. Jon digs his hands through his hair and attempts to pull out the rotten memories that have taken root inside.

Wights on fire, Viserion falling. A hazy figure looming over him as he lies frozen-boned and immobile on a boat heading south. Tiny skulls littering the Dragon Pit. Hooded violet eyes following him. Dragons on a cabin door. 

Silver hair, panting breath, skin that tastes of smoke and—

Jon savagely shakes his head but the memory clings on and refuses to leave. _Pleasure_ , the memory says, _you found pleasure in your aunt. Don't deny it; you’re a Targaryen._ He found pleasure in her arms and she found pleasure in his; her moans and scratching hands told him so. If he hadn’t heard of her barrenness he might’ve never done it; the possibility of bringing another bastard into the world a cruelty he refuses to commit.

Jon knew crossing the threshold into her room would bind him to her for however long she wished it. When he looked down at her, waves crashing against the hull of the ship, he saw storms of fire in her eyes—inconstant and mercurial. He saw a queen who made no efforts to rescue her allies. He saw a woman hungry for power and prophecy. He saw a conqueror ready to take flight for the Red Keep at any moment, threatening to kill thousands for a metal chair.

(Missandei had claimed her to be benevolent and just. She told him how the Dothraki and Unsullied followed Daenerys and chose her as their queen. He wondered at how such an intelligent woman didn't notice the hypocrisy in her words; Westeros never chose Daenerys and yet she waged an unnecessary war to claim a continent that had already suffered under Fire and Blood.)

And so he gave her what she wanted and desired. She wanted him to warm her bed and so he did; he fucked her and she fucked him. He believed his body would be an inconsequential thing to give; he never gave her promises of love or affection and she didn’t ask for them. Daenerys wanted him, and he needed her.  He needed her to never stray. He needed her to be _truly_ committed to the Great War. He needed her to stay and fight, and not abandon the North like she did the Sands, Tyrells, and Greyjoys. 

He sealed the exchange with a kiss.

Jon had yielded to the idea of a future with her, if she wanted that of him. Affection, he thought, wasn't inconceivable. He would have stayed at her side for however long she desired it.  

 _I thought I could perhaps love her, in time._ Jon rubs his face clear of frozen tears.  _But now? I can't continue this play. I've fallen into a trap of my own making and,_ he thinks of his family,  _possibly dragged them into it as well. The very people I've sworn to protec—_

A raven caws and startles him. Jon looks above at the intruder. Its plumage is sleek and midnight black; it shows a keenness in the glint of its eyes. The black bird cocks its head to the side, and flies to perch itself on the heart tree's branches. Out of the thickness of the trees comes Ghost. He is as quiet as ever; white fur and red eyes a reflection of white bark and blood-red leaves.

"Ghost? What are you doing here, boy?"

His snout sniffs the snow around Jon, as if looking for something. Finally, he raises his head with Longclaw's grip in his jaw. The direwolf drops it before him, and urges him to take it. Once he does, Ghost walks in the direction of Winterfell only stopping when he sees that Jon isn't following him. Unsteadily, Jon braces himself against the ash tree and stands. His direwolf has never led him astray. There must be something happening in Winterfell.

The raven flies away to someplace Jon cannot see or follow.  _I'd almost believe it was waiting for me to leave._

Jon sheathes Longclaw and casts one last glance towards the heart tree. _Keep my secrets, tree. And guard my heart, too._ The weeping face stares back. 

The ash tree weeps sap as well, but Jon pays it no mind. It has no face and therefore no mouth to betray him with.

Jon follows Ghost back to Winterfell.

As they get closer to the keep, Jon tries to cast off the dread that's climbed onto his back but finds it a futile task. Sam's whispered fear has lodged itself within his lungs and poisons him with each ebb and draw of breath:

_"And if they don't bend the knee?”_

He thinks of everyone who has opposed Daenerys so far. He thinks of little Lyanna Mormont. He thinks of Lord Manderly. 

He thinks of Sansa.

His  _cousin_. His headstrong and willful...cousin; a woman he knows will never accept Daenerys as queen, especially after learning of the Tarlys; the lady of Winterfell who has held the North together during its most turbulent time; a Stark whose influence and importance Daenerys has taken notice of and mentioned to him more than once.

_"Will she have them all executed like she did my father and brother?"_

From a distance, dragonsong echoes eerily through the godswood trees. Jon quickens the pace and wills himself to ignore the call. He may not be a Stark but he holds no allegiance to the three-headed dragon.

Winterfell rises before him and he is Jon Snow once more.

 

* * *

 

Jaime’s horse nearly throws him off when it hears dragons screeching high above them. He uses his metal hand to try and calm his horse and grips the reins with his left. The horse is not the only one left skittish and wary; people fearfully scan the sky and seek shelter. Jaime himself tenses as he remembers the ambush in the Reach.  _Burn them all... She really is her father's daughter._ Jaime strokes the horse’s flank to soothe him before urging him forward once more.

Bronn, the self-serving ass, decided to stay in Wintertown's shabby imitation of a brothel. _"I'm not about to ride in with the Lannister that killed the dragon queen's father—I've seen her burn others for far less.”_ A dark look passed quickly before he said, “ _Call me a coward if you want, I don't care. Come and get me if they let you live, ey?"_

And so it is that Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, rides into Winterfell alone and with no fanfare—a pitiful, though well-deserved, contrast to the last time he came. Back when he was despised for being a Kingslayer, not a Lannister. 

 _Perhaps Bronn had the right of it_ , he thinks as he’s almost immediately apprehended upon passing through the gate, _even I wouldn’t ride into Winterfell with Jaime Lannister if I could help it_.  

Faces with hollowed out cheeks sneer and yell out. Lannister, they curse and hiss, Kingslayer!

For these people there is no distinction between the two. Both are markers of depravity and cruelty. He refuses to lower his head in shame as he is escorted to gods-know-where. He cares not for their opinion. Judgement and a chance for honor lies elsewhere—and he is ready to face it.

 

* * *

 

The king slayer stands in the middle of the Great Hall. He ports nondescript leathers and clothing, nary a roaring lion in sight. The only marking upon him is his golden hand—his sword was removed upon his arrival. He is naked and defenseless, surrounded by both northerners and Unsullied preventing escape.

Daenerys presides over the hearing at the center of the head table, flanked by Jon, and Sansa Stark. Her council is present as are Bran Stark, Ser Davos, Lyanna Mormont, a northern lady, a lord from the Vale, and a lady knight. She and the north hold little love for the maimed lion.  _Let's see how well this lion fares._

“I see you are alone, Jaime Lannister,” she says his surname with veiled contempt. “When should we expect your sister’s armies to arrive?”

"There are no armies. There never was. I'm the only Lannister soldier you will see north of the Neck."

Daenerys remembers seeing Jamie Lannister for the first time.

 _This man,_  she had thought,  _this_ _man took everything away from me when he killed my father._

Daenerys had looked at the murderer before her and had seen him for what he was. He wasn't the extraordinary creature that prowled her nightmares when she was a little girl. His skin bore no markings of wickedness. The hair atop his head was golden and soaked in sunlight. His armor was well-crafted but held no magical qualities. He was lacking a hand of flesh but that was the extent of his uniqueness. He was an ordinary mortal man. She was almost disappointed by him.

Jamie Lannister would have fared better under disappointment.

Today, Daenerys seeks justice and retribution.

"'I will march them north to fight alongside you in the Great War': is that not what she said?" she looks to Tyrion. " _Your_   _sister_ pledged her forces to fight alongside us in the war against the dead." Her eyes flick away from her Hand; he resolutely refuses to look at her, preferring to stare stupidly at his brother. "I withdrew mine and marched them north because she promised to do the same."

She should have never trusted a Lannister. 

Lannisters are not lions, they are snakes hiding amongst the grass waiting to strike and sink their fangs. While Daenerys is here in this white wasteland, Cersei Lannister is reclaiming every last inch of land she had lost. All the sacrifices she has made turn to ash in her mouth at the thought of Cersei sitting calmly on the Iron Throne. _I should have razed the Red Keep to the ground as soon as I landed on Westeros_. Daenerys recalls how affectionately Tyrion spoke of his older brother. There was love there.  _Perhaps Tyrion never stopped working for the usurpers. Why should I believe there is wildfire underneath Kings Landing? He could very well be lying in order to save his family._ Olenna Tyrel had the right of it. She was no rose, or lion, or wolf. She is Daenerys, mother of dragons, the last Targaryen in the world. _The throne is my birthright. I've forgotten my house words: Fire and Blood. I would be queen of the seven kingdoms by now if I hadn't forgotten them._

She opens her mouth to order the Unsullied to apprehend him but Sansa Stark speaks to the right of her. "Why have you come north, Ser Jaime?"

"I'm no longer a ser, lady Sansa."

"The question still stands," Sansa Stark leans forward, "If your sister has failed to fulfill her pledge, why have you come north?"

"My sister does not control me. I cannot ignore what I saw at the Dragon Pit. And as somebody told me," here, a small smile, "This goes beyond houses. I have come to pledge myself to—"

Daenerys scoffs, "You murdered a king, my father, who you were honor-bound to protect. You have just confessed that your sister, Cersei Lannister, has broken her own oath to me. Why should I believe you? For all I know, she could have sent you to kill me. It's an efficient and tested strategy, using one Lannister man to kill a Targaryen monarch."

"Out of all the dishonorable things I have done, killing—"

Tyrion tries to silence his brother, "Jamie—" 

"Killing your father is one I do not regret." Daenerys wishes she had Drogon here to burn away the defiance in the set of his brows. Strangely, his eyes deviate from hers and land somewhere to the right of the head table. "There are others I deserve to be punished for. But I will not apologize for plunging my sword into the mad king. If I hadn't he would have leveled King's Landing with wildfire. I'll never apologize for it."

 _How dare he speak about my father's murder in such a callous manner?_  She's aware her father was not a gentle man but she is tired of being reminded of it time and time again. It is not a statement he makes but an accusation against her. She is not her father."You should watch your tongue, Kingslayer, lest you find yourself at my dragon's mercy."

"I've witnessed your dragon's 'mercy' in the Reach. Forgive me if I'd rather face the butcher's block. "

The lord from the Vale shares a look with the Mormont girl sitting next to him. He clears his throat and asks, "Speak clearly, Lannister. What happened in the Reach?"

Tyrion finally turns to look at her and Daenerys hates him for it. She will not be shamed for standing her ground that day. It is within her right as queen to execute any and all traitors. They are all hypocrites, these Westerosi. They execute with ropes and swords. She does it with dragonfire. In the end the result is the same, one less soul in the realm of the living.

The Kingslayer glares at Tyrion before whipping around to address the table where the northern council sits. "You don't know?" His question is met with silence. "She burnt a thousand wagons—most of which contained the last harvest." He takes a step forward, " She burnt—"

Sansa Stark interrupts him and tartly asks Ser Davos how many animals her dragons have been fed since they arrived.

Daenerys knows what she is trying to do and she will not stand for it. Sansa Stark might be lady of Winterfell, but Daenerys is her queen. She snaps to the right and wets her lips, "The Targaryen forces brought their own wagons of food, Lady Sansa, in case you’ve forgotten."

"I have not, your grace. Three hundred wagons is an easy quantity to remember—and fewer than a thousand. You brought some wagons of grain but little if any livestock which is what your dragons feed on." The red-haired Stark continues facing forward, not turning to look at her. "I ask again, Ser Davos: how many animals have the dragons devoured since landing in the north?"

The Onion Knight gives Daenerys an apologetic glance before answering, "Near seventy, my lady."

She continues her questioning, asking if they have all come from the Targaryen stock. Ser Davos replies in the negative, and Daenerys turns to Jon, incensed at his sister's attempt to undermine her. She had told him to keep his sister in line. He looks just as angry as her when his eyes meet hers before softening. Daenerys is glad at least someone sees how unnecessary this conversation is. Her dragons can eat whatever they want; without them the north will fall. 

" _Lady_ _Sansa_ ," Jaime Lannister says her name with urgency and takes a step towards the head table; Daenerys appreciates how Jon reflexively places his hand on Longclaw to protect her. "Burnt bushels should be the least of your worries. The woman sitting next to you burnt my men alive after they defeated the Tyrell army in Highgarden. Her and the Dothraki ambushed us as we were transporting the harvest back to the capital. The woman you have all proclaimed queen burnt Randyl Tarly and Dickon Tarly alive after they refused to bend the knee. Just like Aerys Targaryen did to your grandfather and uncle, she murdered a father and son."

Silence reigns in the Great Hall. She hears Jon's leather gloves tighten around his chair's armrests. 

" **I am not my father**." She will defend herself if no one else will. "I let them choose. And they chose to _die_."

She hates Jaime Lannister and rues the day she offered Tyrion Lannister the golden pin that rests upon his doublet. Who is this oathbreaker to condemn her for handing out justice in her own kingdom? "It is within my right as queen to execute traitors. I now offer you the same choice, Kingslayer. Bend the knee to me or refuse and die."

"His life is not yours to take, Daenerys Targaryen," a whisper denies her from the right of Sansa Stark. "His life is not yet forfeit."

Bran Stark unnerves her. He knew about her brother and how he died. He knew about Viserion. The youngest Stark speaks truths and secrets as easily as others drink wine. If it were any other to interrupt her...Daenerys notices even Sansa Stark seems surprised by her brother's claim.

"Jaime Lannister pushed me out of the broken tower. He is the one that crippled me. His life belongs to House Stark."

The monster in front of her hangs his head in shame. The hall erupts with noise. Daenerys hears Jon speak for the first time, "You fucking—"

The crippled boy raises his voice, "It doesn't matter; we don't have time for this." The Great Hall falls into a tense silence ready to break at any moment. "Jaime Lannister, step forward and join oathkeeper. Fulfill the oath you swore—" he pauses, and beckons the lady knight. She stands with both her sword and the Kingslayer's "—here is your last chance for honor." 

The Kingslayer is taken aback by Bran Stark's words.  _Here is your last chance for honor?_   _What does he intend to do?_ Nonetheless, after taking his sword from the lady knight, he bends the knee in front of the head table and lays the sword on the floor. It is only right, she thinks, after what he did to her father. There is a sense of vindication, having the Kingslayer at her feet.

"I offer you my services, Lady Stark." Daenerys' jaw tightens. "I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Sansa Stark confidently stands, her voice cloyingly innocent, "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor." Jaime Lannister lifts his head and looks at Sansa as if she were his salvation. Daenerys tastes blood. "I swear it by the old gods and the new. Arise."

The traitor and murderer rises, now cloaked under the protection of House Stark—no, of _Sansa_ Stark. 

Daenerys has been robbed of justice. She has been denied retribution.

Yes, Olenna Tyrell was right. She is a dragon and she is tired of listening to clever men with clever plans that never work in her favor. 

_I will take what is mine with Fire and Blood._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is longer than the other chapters—almost double in length. I couldn't really find a good part to cut it off so I kept it as one chapter instead of two. (For Jon's POV I decided to parallel Robb's scene in the show when he found out about Ned's execution.)
> 
> ANYWAYS. omg. omg. OMG. Episode two is tomorrow and Jon knows the truth of his parentage, Jaime will be in Winterfell, and I just—I can't. 
> 
> I'll have to go buy some popcorn because I have a feeling it's gonna be a tension-filled episode and I'll need something to stress eat, lmao.


End file.
